A Tribute To
by California-Italian
Summary: So, this is a series of tributes to the multiple characters of CSI:NY. 7th tribute up. Hawkes's is A Tribute to the Innocent Prisoner. No paings which is a huge shocker coming from me. R&R PLEASE! ON HIATUS until I find time to write!
1. The Fallen Marine

**A/n: So, this is totally spur of the moment…bare with me here, people.**

_**Set: Back when Mac was in Desert Storm…**_

_**Kinda a pre-series CSI:NY x-over with pre-series NCIS**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Fallen Marine_

Pieces of hot metal whizzed past his ear, but Mac didn't care. What was on his mind right now was getting his ass out of this hell hole. There were wounded, dying, and dead up to his ears, and this was not going remotely well. Looking to his right, he saw LJ trying to stop a twenty something from bleeding to death. That wasn't going well either. These soldiers were too young. Most had a life back home they would never be able to go back to. They either didn't make it back alive, or they came home a different person; they came home a person who saw troubles far beyond their years.

"Taylor, come help me with this! Taylor!" He heard LJ yelling at him over the multitude of blasts and shots. "I can't do this by myself! I need help, and Calpine's about ready to piss himself."

He changed his line of sight to the eighteen year old who was clutching LJ's sniper rifle in a death grip. Mac crawled over to his buddy and the bleeding, twenty something kid just as chunks of hard ground flew in ever direction not more that fifty feet away from them.

"If you get me blown up, Taylor, I'm coming back to haunt your sorry ass."

Mac cracked an appropriately sized smile for this situation. Actually, he was pretty sure LJ wasn't joking. He knew that he wanted to get back to his wife, Shannon, and daughter, Kelly. He, also, had someone to get back to. Not even ten minutes after proposing to Claire, did he get the call telling him he was to be deployed to Operation Desert Storm in less than a month. Life sucked. It wasn't that he hated being deployed so much as the deployment couldn't have been at worse possible time.

The twenty something, Alex Sanderson, as his dog tags read, began coughing. Blood from the back of his throat speckled the two older marines with vermillion drops. LJ could tell the kid was trying to apologize, but couldn't get the words out without coughing up more blood. Mac, who was now applying pressure to the shrapnel wound, looked at LJ with a knowing look. Sanderson wasn't going to be making it home.

"Sergeant Gibbs, Sergeant Taylor," Alex no longer cared about the blood flecks. "when…you guys get back to America…can…can one of you travel out to Grand Rapids, Michigan? My girl…girlfriend lives out there." The spots of blood now covered his own face, and a scarlet stream came from the corner of his mouth. "Can you g…give her my dog tags?"

"We don't know where she lives, Marine."

"My…my bunk…underneath the mattress…there's a picture…her address is on the back." Another fit of coughs consumed him, and then he was still.

Mac pulled his hands back, and wiped the blood on his pants while LJ removed the tags. More chunks of hard earth showered them.

"Calpine, be ready to run, us three are heading back."

The three of them sprinted to the nearest form of shelter, a mound of dirt from a recent blast. Mac began to count…

One heartbeat…two heartbeats…three heartbeats…run!

They made another dash to another mound of dirt. As they paused there, LJ ran his fingers through his dark brown hair, loosening crumbs of dirt in the process.

One heartbeat…two heartbeats…three heartbeats…run!

Nothing mattered but Shannon, Kelly, Claire, and the promise to Sanderson. Pieces of hot metal whizzed past his ear, but Mac didn't care. What was on his mind right now was getting his ass out of this hell hole.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: Ok, so I kinda lied. I've actually had the idea to write a series of tributes to each of the characters, but I didn't write this out first like I usually do…so that's what I meant by 'spur of the moment.'**

**Stella's Tribute is next.**


	2. The Abandoned and Forgotten

**A/n: This one was weird because I couldn't really think of anything to write at first, but my muse is good to me and slapped me in the face at about 9:30 at night. Oh! And I've changed my user name from Sagittarius Fire Goddess cause it's always sorta bugged me, and I've finally found one I'm content with. =D**

_**Set: Stella's last day in the system…err…that is as a foster child.**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Abandoned and Forgotten_

Four hours, sixteen minutes, and eighteen seconds. In less than five hours from now, Stella Bonasera would be free. She would finally get to leave the bouncing from one foster home to another, the constantly changing schools, and the anxiety attacks that would make her stomach go sour. The constant change of scenery, she could handle, but when she would have to be 'the new girl' every three months she resorted to estrangement. She missed Marilyn. Her sister was always there for her, but she was gone. Even if they had come across each other again, she was out of the system. Stella would've been gone by the time they had reconnected anyways.

Needless to say, you could see why she was excited about her eighteenth birthday. Her bags had been packed for six days. Now, she simply stared at the ceiling.

Jeez, she hated this place. North Carolina wasn't somewhere for those who like the cold and dry, especially if said person had frizzy hair to heck. The six year old girl she shared the room with, Kylee, loved it. Every night, when she thought Stella was asleep, she would tip toe across the ten foot by eleven foot room and throw open the window. The air was so damn stifling. When Stella would get the anxiety attacks, she would usually run to the bathroom and wretch for half an hour, but when she had anxiety attacks in her sleep, she would often wake up gagging and struggling to breath.

One time, around six weeks ago, she woke up as Kylee was coming back from the bathroom, and Stella sprinted to shut the window. She knocked over the small girl in her rush not to suffocate; Kylee began to scream and cry. Her foster father had been so mad. He rushed into the room, yelled at her for hurting her little 'sister', and punched her. Kylee didn't cry after that.

Stella reached up and touched where the bruise had been. What used to be an intense sting was now a dull pain. After two weeks, the angry red bruise began to fade to purple, then green, then yellow. Now, it was virtually invisible.

She wondered what she did to her parents to make them hate her so much. She was only a baby when they gave her away. What did she do? Suddenly, the litany that St. Basil's had pounded into her head came back:

'_You are special; there is nothing wrong with you. It wasn't your fault; you did nothing wrong...Blah, blah, blah...'_

Lies. Someone decided she wasn't good enough to be their daughter. Someone had decided she wasn't worth the trouble. Whenever she was invited to one of her short lived friend's house, she was spiteful. She hated seeing what she wanted, but she would never have it.

Stella shook the bad memories from her head, but one question still remained there. Where would she go? She'd been to a lot of states. Most she hated. Somewhere cold. That's where she wanted to go. She thought to where the most good memories were. New York. She and Marilyn had made so many good memories there. Wait…wasn't there a rule about not dwelling in the past? Screw that.

What would she do when she got there? Stella had money saved up from all the jobs she had worked since she was eight. Many of those jobs consisted of going downtown with a hat and dancing on a street corner. Others included working in a local groceries store or a coffee shop. There were others, but she couldn't remember all of them. She'd never really counted the money before, but she knew there was a lot. She hardly spent any of it except on new clothes and shoes to substitute the ones she'd grown out of. She knew most colleges provided financial help to those with little money. She also knew she was a minority. A foster child. As far as she knew, not many went to college.

What would she study? That was the easiest question to answer. Every science teacher she had wrote something along the lines of 'Ms. Bonasera has a great interest in chemistry. We suggest you enroll her in such in such chemistry program.' The foster parents never did.

Years and years ago, she and Marilyn made a pact. Whatever they did in life it would benefit others more than themselves. She sucked in a breath. She didn't want to be stuck in a lab all day though. What was it she had seen on TV the other day? Something about people, not policemen, coming to the crime scenes and collecting hairs, blood, and fingerprints. CSIs, she thought they were called. That was it.

Her life had been planned out in less than, Stella glanced at the clock, half an hour.

Three hours, fifty-two minutes, and seven seconds. In less than four hours from now, Stella Bonasera would be free.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: This one didn't turn out quite how I expected it to, but I did end up liking it. So, I hope you enjoy it too.**

**Next is Don's.**


	3. The Wounded Survivor

**A/n: Hello! I'm back with another chapter, and this one's for Don. I have lots of love for the blue-eyed detective. He makes me smile =D**

_**Set: When he's in the hospital after the bomb. Spoilers for Charge of This Post.**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Wounded Survivor_

This place sickened him. Don Flack hated these white washed walls and sick smell. He hated hospitals for all he was worth because life rolled on outside these walls while he was stuck waiting. This hatred was nothing new. As a kid, he played hockey and basketball and was used to the constant trips to the clinic, but he still hated them. And when his ma reminded him of how many times his own father had been sent to the hospital in the line of duty, it almost made him reconsider his future line of work. Almost.

Maybe it wasn't so much the looks of a hospital, but the boredom that came with it. He had half the mind to call the nurse in and start flirting with her, but Flack had already gotten her number. There would be no fun to it. The other half of his mind went to the world outside of this mental prison cell.

Who would Danny and Hawkes tell all their lame jokes to? Who would Mac feel the need to try to intimidate (not that Don Flack ever had been…)? But going back now was a selfish desire. He knew that. What was important was that he, Mac, and the other guy were alive. It was only pure luck and Mac that he was in a hospital bed and not on an autopsy table. From the rumors being passed to him via Danny, Don found out that it was the bomb trigger that had carved the gaping hole in his abdomen.

According to the doctor, he would be on medical leave for at least a couple of months. This place kept racking up hate points. It was a good thing Benton's trainee had finally escaped the whip because a replacement was needed. Replacement. Flack didn't like that word. It made his absence seem permanent, but he knew the CSIs needed someone who wouldn't groan in pain every ten seconds and someone who would chase after a suspect without the fear of popping stitches.

He wondered what they were doing now. Mac was probably in his office, like always. Don was pretty sure, if it wasn't for Stella, he would've never left the glass, box-like office. Stella was most likely trying to drag the afore mentioned out of said glass box. He knew where Lindsey and Danny were. He could see them from the window into the hallway. Lindsey was asleep with her head resting on Danny's shoulder. The male CSI was also asleep, and his head rested atop hers with his glasses threatening to fall off. Flack grinned. He really wished he had his camera. Blackmail. Hawkes and Adam were probably at a bar somewhere. He wished he was with them. With the strength of the pain meds, he knew he wasn't going to be ordering anything alcoholic anytime soon. Earlier, he had seen Sid's wife come and retrieve him from an uncomfortable plastic chair. He was home.

Don longed to be with them. Each and every one of them. He wished this tragedy never took place. No one had died, but plenty, including two co-workers/very good friends, had been injured. Still, he envied how their lives carried on.

This place sickened him. Don Flack hated these white washed walls and sick smell. He hated hospitals for all he was worth because life rolled on outside these walls while he was stuck waiting.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: I originally didn't like this, but I've warmed up to it. It frustrates me, though, that it only reaches a page on Microsoft word. Anyways, hope you like it more than I do!**

**Oh, yeah! How many of you got that 'Benton's trainee' was Jess? Go watch 'People with Money' if you still don't get what I'm talking about.**


	4. The Reciever of Loss and Hardship

**A/n: What up? I realized I forgot to tell you whose tribute was up next when I posted Don's chapter. Well, this one is for Danny.**

_**Set: While he and Adam are being held by the Irish mobsters during 'Snow Day.'**_

_**I'll refrain from DL as much as possible cause I'm pretty tired of it, but I did have to make a reference in order to do some of this…sorry.**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Receiver of Loss and Hardship_

Someone had told him that what you lose will be returned ten fold, but, as of late, that philosophy seemed like a load of bull shit to him. It seemed like whatever Danny gained was countered with destruction by ten fold. As far as he knew, fate was making him jump through fiery hoop after fiery hoop after he had been doused in gasoline. It wasn't fun.

Danny thought back to the last five years. How much loss had he been through? How much suffering had he been condemned to? His father had died four years ago, Louie went into a coma, Aiden died, Don almost died, and now he, Adam, and the two police officers were most likely going to die in less than an hour.

His father died in a car accident while returning from getting his wife's anniversary gift. According to the police report, the idiot who hit him had a blood alcohol level of .12, but he had hardly received a bruise here and there while Antonio Messer had suffered severe head trauma. He eventually went into shock from the pain and died on the way to the hospital. Danny closed his eyes and forced himself not to vomit from the memory. That was the day after he'd become a field CSI.

And then, God forbid his family finally put themselves back together, Louie went into a coma, most likely never to return. Danny didn't really remember anything from that night other than a lot of yelling and sirens. The one thing that never failed to make a reappearance was the memory of when the two brothers had been on much better terms. Yet those memories never seemed to help. Even in the past months, these would resurface and words would come to his mind. Pain. Hurt. Suffering. But never good. His newfound friendship with the CSI from Montana didn't seem to make up for another familial loss.

When the feeling of dread stopped gnawing at him, disaster struck again. This time, he felt something stronger, like some part of him died. Although Danny loved him, he and his father had never been close, and since that night in Jersey, the Messer brothers hadn't been on familial terms. But this was his colleague, his partner. This was his best friend. Aiden was every part family but blood. That night, after toasting her life, he had gone home and stared at a picture of them for hours. It was taken after their first case together. His arm was nonchalantly placed around her shoulder, and she was laughing about some stupid joke he had told, but neither were looking at the camera. Mac had taken the picture; he remembered that. Aiden had scolded the head CSI for taking a picture when they weren't ready; she hated it, and he told her he did too, but that was a lie. He loved the photos he had taken with her and all the ones she had taken. He knew she loved photography and got her a leather bound and blank album for her birthday. Not even the album, left to him in her will and filled with pictures, could pull him from this third nightmare.

Almost a month later, a fourth fiery hoop was presented. The bomb. Knowing his emotions were already volatile and unstable, Stella suggested to him that he prepare the techs for what was ahead of them. He wasn't having it. No more friends would die; he would be there to make sure of that. After weeks in the hospital and months out of work, Don had finally returned. To this tragedy, Danny found the silver lining.

Sitting in the truck next to Adam, he struggled to comprehend the never ending turmoil. Surely someone had been through more. But now he would never know that. He was going to die here with Adam. Adam, who was working the field for the first time, who would never work the field again. Danny realized that his relationship with Lindsey, with whom he spent the night, would be classified as nothing more than a one night stand to the world. That upset him; he wanted it to be more. He looked over to Adam who was shaking almost unnoticeably. Danny wondered if it was comedies or tragedies that floated in front of the younger CSI's eyes. Messer leaned forward slightly; the ever present silver lining was beginning to fade.

Someone had told him that what you lose will be returned ten fold, but, as of late, that philosophy seemed like a load of bull shit to him. It seemed like whatever Danny gained was countered with destruction by ten fold.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: So, obviously, we all know that Danny and Adam don't actually die, but, if I was in their situation, I'd definitely fear impending death.**

**Oh, just another side note, comedy originally meant happy stories in general rather than just funny stories.**

**Next tribute is Aiden's!**


	5. The Fatally Courageous

**A/n: Hey! Thanks so much for all your review. They make me feel better after the season finale. *grumbles in annoyance*. Ignore my rambling, enjoy, and send me more of those fabulous reviews you know I love.**

_**Set: Sorta difficult to explain; I guess you could say she's dead, but she's more in between life and death.**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Fatally Courageous_

This was death, and there was nothing. There was no part of her life flashing before her eyes, or a light at the end of the tunnel. Just darkness. Nothing more and nothing less than what she expected. She felt _nothing_. Well, that wasn't the complete truth because Aiden could definitely feel the pain of DJ Pratt's fists pounding into her face.

She knew she was going to die. She knew that information the second the bastard stepped up behind her and started dragging her to the car. What she didn't know, though, was what would be on the 'other side.'

Technically, she wasn't really on the other side. That was evident from the fact that she could still feel the beating she was receiving, but by now that was only a faint feeling in the back of her mind. That's where she assumed she was right now; just floating in the back of her own mind and patiently waiting for the grim reaper, or whatever.

Aiden didn't really expect much more than perpetual darkness. She'd never been religious. As far as she was concerned, there was Heaven, Hell, and nothing in between.

That was all she really needed to know. Still, there was a needling feeling that there was unfinished business. She knew what it was too. She'd heard some where that saying goodbye wasn't the worst thing that could happen, but not saying it was; it stuck with her. Every time she walked out of a room she made a point to say goodbye.

Aiden had only said it to Mac and Danny. To Mac, when she had been fired, and to Danny, after they had lunch the other day. She really wanted to say it to Sid because her conversations with him were never dry and forced. Even something as melancholy as being fired could be made brighter by the endearing medical examiner. Saying goodbye to Stella was a tie with Hammerback. The Greek woman was like the older sister she never had; she always had advice for everything, ranging from how to process a crime scene to something as trivial as dating. Saying her goodbyes to Hawkes, Flack, and Adam came in a close second place. The antics of the two field detectives never bored her, and Adam's teddy bear-like quirkiness always put a smile on her face.

But she would never see these people –her friends– again. There was nothing she could do. Aiden would never come out of this alive. Numbness was starting to seep into her bones. Her whole body felt as if she was getting pins and needles. She vaguely wondered if she would start seeing an angel to take her away, or the light at the end of the tunnel. Death was creeping closer than she was comfortable with.

Of course, it had to happen sooner or later. Everybody died. Especially with her job –technically her former job– death was expected and accepted. But few times was it not lamented. There was always someone crying for the dead or missing. She wondered who would cry for her. She _knew_ Danny would. They were best friends, and God knew that boy wore his heart on his sleeve. Stella would. Don would. Adam would. Hawkes would. Sid would…would Mac? They hadn't exactly been on the best of terms the last time words were exchanged, and he hardly showed emotion anyhow. It was like how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop –the world may never know.

Randomly, a sharp pain shot through her. As fast as it came to her body, it left. Aiden noticed, happily, that the irritation from Pratt's beatings was gone also. Maybe she would live after all. But just as the pain shot through her, realization did too. This was death. And there was nothing. There was no part of her life flashing before her eyes, or a light at the end of the tunnel. Just darkness. Nothing more and nothing less than what she expected. She felt _nothing_.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: Tadah! So that was Aiden's. I miss her. I definitely like her a whole lot more than I like Lindsey (which is very little, might I add).**

**Next is Adam's.**


	6. The Bullied

**A/n: Wow. I feel extremely bad cause I haven't updated in over a month. Sorry! I've been busy with my DnA story (which you all should totally go read and review for!). Ok, I'm done with my shameless advertisement. So here goes Adam's tribute. It's a darker side to Adam, but I **_**think**_** it's good. Enjoy.**

_**Set: The last day Adam spends in his house in Phoenix**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Bullied_

Adam Ross closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he lay sprawled out on his bed. This was the last day in hell because tomorrow would be a new day, and he would be leaving for college. The very thought of getting out of the house for good had his brain cells buzzing excitedly in his head. _The House_. He'd always called it that; never before had he thought of it as his _home_.

No. Because home was somewhere he wanted to be rather than somewhere he had to be or else he'd get the shit beaten out of him. He sucked in another deep breath. Adam wanted to be out. He desired to be out. He _needed _to be out. This was more than just hatred of the house he grew up in; it was fear for his life. Lately, his father had been coming down on him harder and harder. Verbally and physically.

Last week his father had called him a worthless piece of shit, and then promptly broke his arm. Right now, the cast was hiding under a large cotton blanket. He hated the sight of it. Not even the energetic green and orange of the plaster could cheer him up a little. They were just reminders of how much his life sucked.

Adam lifted his un-casted right arm above his head and stared at the three parallel scars that stuck out white on his tan skin. They had been made years ago when he was sixteen. He remembered the knife that had been used to make them too. It was a bright silver Swiss Army knife that had been scrubbed of all traces of blood. The thing was though, it wasn't his father who had made them, but he would never tell his family that. Adam couldn't drop the bomb on them that his mother's only child had hated his life so much at one point that he made three vertical cuts in order to know that his father couldn't control everything.

The logic was twisted. He didn't even understand it now, but somewhere in the mind of a drunk and abused sixteen year old, it made perfect sense. Underneath all the bruises, insults, scars, casts, and slings, nothing else in the world made more sense than that one action.

He remembered when everything started. The death of his mom. Although he was only seven at the time, the memory was clear cut and precise. He had been sitting in the back seat of their car. The clock read 7:24 AM, and he was complaining about not wanting to go to school. She paused at the stop sign and began to put the car in motion again. Seemingly out of nowhere, a blue Mitsubishi pick-up truck with pealing paint collided with the front driver's side of their red Honda. Two minutes later, mostly unharmed –save for the whiplash and superficial cuts from glass– Adam Ross could hear ambulance sirens. Three minutes after that, he felt himself being pulled from the back seat. He began going in and out of consciousness, hearing only bits and pieces of what was being said around him. 'Drunk driver', 'unharmed', 'two passengers', 'driver is Allison Ross', 'DOA', 'kid in backseat', 'possible concussion; nothing major.'

The next memory he had that day was that of waking up in a white room with two doors. One went to a small bathroom that smelled like cherry-scented disinfectant, and the other one led to a florescent bulb lit hallway with grey and white tiling. In one of the faded blue chairs, sat his father staring at him with an unreadable face. A Doctor Meads walked in and told him how Adam had a minor concussion and had required stitches for a cut on his shoulder. He said he would be fine, but it would be best if they kept him over night for observation. His father had agreed and the next morning, he was signed out of the hospital with a clean bill of health. When they returned home, the first thing he did was fall asleep in his own bed. Adam woke up and looked at the green glow coming from the digital clock on his night stand. 7:24 PM. It had been exactly thirty-six hours since the crash. Thirty-six hours since the last time he would see his mom alive.

Sixteen minutes later, he went to the front room to find his father sitting on the couch holding a picture in one hand and a glass of clear liquid in the other. A floor board creaked and the older man's head swiveled towards him. The hand holding the glass was clutched so hard the knuckles were white, and the picture floated to the ground. In four breaths, the only sound to be heard was the shattering of crystal on the light green wall, just inches away from Adam's left shoulder. Two breaths later, his father screamed, 'This is all your fault. She should've never died. It should be you.'

It should be you. It should be you. It should be you. The words had never left his head, and the night he cut himself, that was all he had heard. It should be you. It should be you. It should be you.

Adam Ross closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he lay sprawled out on his bed. This was the last day in hell because tomorrow would be a new day, and he would be leaving for college. The very thought of getting out of the house for good had his brain cells buzzing excitedly in his head.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: So, I think this is the longest one so far. I'm not quite sure if it's longer than Stella's tribute, but I'm pretty sure it is. Reviews are always welcomed and loved.**

**Next is Hawkes'.**


	7. The Innocent Prisoner

**A/n: So, after being extremely lazy after I finished writing Adam's tribute, I put one of my Saturday afternoons to good use, and I came up with this. By the way, I have at least three chapters done before I post one, so, no, I'm not a failure at my days of the week.**

_**Set: When Hawkes is wrongly accused of killing that guy in the bar. Spoilers for Raising Shane.**_

**A Tribute to…**

_The Innocent Prisoner_

As Sheldon Hawkes stared out of his cell, he couldn't help but think of how his whole world became striped with iron bars. Sure, from the other side of the cell, life was fine other than the daily wackos he had to deal with. But now he was nothing more than the scum of the earth. For God's sake. It's not like he'd done anything. The least they could do was put him in medium security until they actually had _evidence_. All they had was an eye witness. Then again, the description of the perp matched, and they had found the money in his pocket. Oh yeah, he was screwed.

Where the hell did that money even come from? What was the possibility that someone had been wearing the exact same thing on the exact same night mere blocks from him? What was the probability that there was actually evidence that pointed away from him? Shit. Screwed again.

How was it possible that he had gone from Doctor Sheldon Hawkes to Medical Examiner Sheldon Hawkes to CSI Sheldon Hawkes to Prisoner Sheldon Hawkes? The only _logical_ explanation he could come up with was being framed. He'd come up with plenty of _illogical_ ones. Solitary confinement gave you that sort of time. But who hated him so much that they felt the uncontrollable impulse to make him suffer? He'd spoken with plenty of angry relatives who had mostly screamed at him for not 'doing anything useful to the investigation.' None of them had said they would get revenge though. In fact, a large majority had broken down and apologized. The others were put in to the past and never thought about again. None had ever tried to contact him, much less threaten him.

One of the things he hated most about this place was how much time you were given to think about how much more important stupid things of freedom were. Getting visitors came in an extremely close second for hatred. Staring through the scratched plexi-glass at his friends made his stomach churn in bitterness. How _easy_ they had it. Being able to get up and leave anytime they want. He couldn't do any of that. All he could do was sit in an isolated cell and stare at the dull grey ceiling and hope that the team would find something, _anything_, to prove him innocent of something he fought against everyday. Needless to say, Prisoner Sheldon Hawkes was spiteful.

Hawkes thought of the first thing he would do once he got out of Rikers. First would be to hug each of the team for getting him out and to get his gun and badge back from Mac. Second would be to take up residence in a bar for a couple of hours. Third would be to take a shower without nineteen other guys. Hawkes involuntarily cringed. Maybe that one would come first, even if they were just the crappy showers with little water pressure at the precinct. Last would be to go to sleep without the final thought of the day being along the lines of how angry at life he was.

But what if that never happened? Even Mac wasn't perfect. What if they never found the evidence to clear his name, and he went down in history as 'the dirty cop who shot and killed a woman for a few hundred bucks?' As Sheldon Hawkes stared out of his cell, he couldn't help but think of how his whole world became striped with iron bars. Sure, from the other side of the cell, life was fine other than the daily wackos he had to deal with. But now he was nothing more than the scum of the earth.

**FINITO!**

**A/n: Poor Hawkes. I felt sorry for him that whole episode. That led to me yelling at my TV, "Hawkes is innocent, you idiots! It was Shane Casey!" Sadly, though, I can't communicate with my TV cause if I did, well…that would be awesome. Oh, **_**iluvcsi4ever**_**, you should be sitting at your computer screen with a huge smile on your face cause I used the words illogical and logical.**

**Next is Jess'!**


End file.
